


Lingering

by SilverSanctuary



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.3 spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, Romance, Will add tags as I go, ffxiv write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:13:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 16,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26242465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSanctuary/pseuds/SilverSanctuary
Summary: She came beside him, laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, her fingers on his bare skin. He stilled at the touch, the blood pounding in his ears.Oh Twelve forfend, when had he --?He had chased girls before, back in Sharlayan, had grinned and bragged and flirted, but this felt like he had just missed a step going down stairs, and instead of catching himself on the railing, he was plummeting down the whole damn flight.My contributions for 2020 FFXIV Write
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 43
Kudos: 67
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. Crux

**Author's Note:**

> 5.3 spoilers ahead!

In those first weeks after the Scions left the First, it became customary for the Captain of the Crystarium to spend her evenings at the top of the Crystal Tower. When her shift ended, Lyna saluted her guards, thanked them for a hard day’s work, and then turned her feet to the center of the city and through the Dossal Gate. Her boots thunked against the steps as she travelled the long, ribboned staircases past the Ocular and the myriad hidden rooms, until she came to the pinnacle.

The wind brought the wispy scent of cooking fires and the distant echo of laughter from the city far below. The clouds scuttled across the sky and dyed themselves the colors of the sunset, blazing reds and oranges diffusing slowly into purples and blues. As she watched, the bright clean blue of the tower smudged a little with the sunset colors, the crystal becoming a kaleidoscope for her to behold. 

Lyna remembered that first night, the first time darkness came to Lakeland. Something inside her unclenched, an anxiety that she had not consciously known she had carried all her life. The night suffused the world with such a soft and quiet beauty. 

She understood then why the Crystal Exarch had risked life and limb and sanity trying to bring the night back. The glinting of the stars was worth it.

She turned to the statue and nodded to him.

“Good evening, my lord.”

She knew this statue was merely the symbol he left behind. He spent so much of his life on the First turning himself into something more, something other, but she knew he was saying goodbye to her when they stood at the gates of the city that day. When he reminisced on their past together, speaking to her more openly than he had in years. 

True, the Warrior of Darkness came back often enough to bring letters and all manner of trinkets from the Source. And like an expert carrier, the postwoman picked up letters, food, and Crystalline Mean gadgets to ferry back to their friends across the rift. 

Lyna wrote him reports about the state of the Crystarium -- the restructuring of the city, the guard schedules and training, the economy. Formalities. She tried once to write something more personal, but her eyes misted over and the words fled, and she would sooner die than hand in a tear-stained report.

In his letters to her, he walked a tightrope. Tempered by grief, his words weighed heavily on the page, but some of the boyish enthusiasm for his new adventures shined through, and it made her smile even as she wiped away tears.

Because that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? At the end of the day, he had always been something other. He came from somewhere other. And now, now he was back there. Living his life with the person he most wanted to see in all of the universe, the person he nearly killed himself trying to summon and save. No longer chained to the persona of the Exarch and the struggles of the First, the road underneath his feet tumbled forward with endless possibilities.

Lyna reached out for the statue’s hand. She squeezed the crystal and took a little strength from its solidarity. 

“You needn’t worry about us. About me. Live your life, my lord. I hope it’s a wonderful one.”

She saluted and took a deep breath before turning to descend the tower, determined to write this hope for him in her next letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	2. Sway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 spoilers. Aftermath of fighting the hippogriffs in Mor Dhona. F!WoL, dancer

The voices of the patrons of the tavern in Revenant’s Toll bubbled up into the rafters, bursting with songs and curses and laughter. Previously so ensconced in the looming quiet of the Crystal Tower, G’raha couldn’t remember the last time he was in a place that was so loud.

Thancred came back to the table bearing several glasses of mead and placed one in front of each of the Scions.

“Cheers,” he said, raising his tankard, “to a job well done! And proving that these bodies can, in fact, fight again.”

They raised their glasses and drank with a hearty "huzzah."

“Those hippogriffs didn’t stand a chance,” Alisaie smirked. “Not with all the force of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn coming down on them. Although you all _really_ should have saved some more of them for me. I was on a roll.”

Alphinaud chuckled. “They weren't the most fearsome foes we have ever faced, to be sure. But, in case you forget, dear sister, you were about to get slashed in the back if it hadn’t been for our new comrade here.”

G’raha’s ears twitched as the focus of the table turned to him, and he took a nervous sip of his drink.

Urianger smiled good-naturedly. “Indeed, thy performance was most spectacular, considering that thou art still rediscovering the intricacies of thy aetherical manipulation.”

G’raha forced himself to not duck his head. _These are my friends now_ , he reminded himself. He quickly recited the mantra he used to tell himself when he was first cultivating the persona of the Exarch. Chin up, shoulders back, spine straight.

“Fair glad I am that my powers could be of service,” he answered. “As a Scion now, I shall endeavor to protect my friends and allies.”

A well-timed spell from his new crystal staff had felled one of the beasts that was reared to attack the fearsome Leveilleur red mage. Alisaie had rushed into the battle with a joy that G’raha found amusing and refreshing, and although he had kept an eye on the hippogriffs themselves and his comrades, his eyes were drawn -- _of course, always, in every lifetime_ \-- to the Warrior of Darkness.

No, he corrected himself. She was the Warrior of Light in this world, and her performance on the battlefield solidified that title. She fought radiantly. She leapt and swayed, the lightness of her feet marching out the technical step. Aetherical shapes bloomed from her - a spray of roses and leaves, birds and crowns. She arched and swung, the swish and swirl of her bladed chakrams cascading through the air, an entrancing waltz of flourishes and fanned feathers that brought her enemies to their knees.

He watched her now, from over the rim of his drink. She chuckled and reminisced with the Scions as they recounted past battles and made plans to visit their friends in the myriad lands across the star. A fiddle started up in the tavern, and he watched her drink and hum and sway.

The comfort here, the refreshment of the food and drink and companionship bloomed brightly on his tongue, something he had craved for untold years.

He rose from the table and ordered another drink. The alcohol buzzed in him, and he craved more of the liquid courage. Perhaps, perhaps this would give him the strength to reach out to her later in the evening, invite her to dance in a way that did not require battle stances. The two of them, reunited, swaying uninhibited, unencumbered, for at least one night of joyful celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	3. Muster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> f!WoL walks through the Alliance war camp before the battle of Ghimlyt Dark

Anxiety crackled through the air like levinbolts.

As the Warrior walked through the Alliance war camp, many of the soldiers sought her out. She looked over their weapons, corrected grips and stances, and made a few jokes that earned her short guffaws.

No true laughter rang out. Instead, the camp rattled with barking orders passed down from Commander Aldynn’s strategy table. She overheard officers giving speeches to their soldiers, trying to inspire. She clasped hands with men heralding from every corner of Gridania, La Noscea, Thanalan, Coerthas, and Doma. The flags of the nations flew overhead, the standards snapping in the wind. It was a mustering of men unlike anything in recent memory. 

The hairs on her arms stood on end as she watched the preparations for war unfold around her. Some practiced with striking dummies, walking away sweaty and shaking. Some spoke too fast and too loudly. Others sat in silence. It did not matter; the dread pressed in from all sides. It clung damply to their skin, the inexorable march of time leading them all to the tipping point.

It was a knowledge that could not be shaken but could not be voiced -- that many and more of them would not make it out of this contest alive.

But regardless, they were going to face the Garleans at Ghimlyt Dark. They were going to make their stand.

It seemed unfair for her to walk out onto the battlefield, armed to the teeth and gifted with the extra armor of Hydaelyn’s blessing. Would she be able to stride so confidently without the Mothercrystal’s resilience fortifying her?

And yet, would the Echo protect her from the Black Rose, if the Garleans somehow deployed it? Would Hydaelyn’s grace claw the poison from her lungs? 

The apprehension made her blood run cold. And so, as she often did in the most dire of times, the Warrior of Light delivered warming soup.

She found Alisaie near the training grounds, twirling her rapier in complicated patterns. The Warrior held out the bowl of soup in offering, and Alisaie put her weapon away to come and sit and eat.

“I thought you were going to try to rest before the battle,” she gently chided the young Scion.

“How could I possibly rest?” Alisaie replied, shaking her head. “I barely feel like I can breathe.”

She looked up at the overcast sky, and the Warrior knew she was thinking of her brother laying on a pallet in the infirmary, unresponsive to any chirurgeon’s ministrations. 

The Warrior placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “We’ll find a way.”

A way to bring the Scions back, hale and hearty. An answer to the voice that reached for them, seeking to snatch their souls. A path through the long shadow cast by the Ascian threat, newly revealed by Emperor Varis.

They would do this. They would break through this fog of dread and walk again in the light.

The Warrior mustered her courage, squeezed Alisaie’s shoulder harder, and repeated with conviction, “We’ll find a way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	4. Clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fishing trip for G'raha and the Warrior of Light.  
> Post-5.3, f!WoL

G’raha accepted the Warrior’s offer to go fishing on the morrow with no hesitation and met her in the lobby of the Rising Stones in the gray dawn quiet with a picnic basket looped around his arm. She came laden with poles and tackle boxes, dressed not in her usual armor and adventuring garb but instead in a simple tunic, pants, and a sun hat with a pink flower attached.

“Oh, wait a moment!” she exclaimed, after looking over all their materials. She rushed back to her room and came back bearing another sun hat, matching hers completely, and she placed it on his head. He wriggled his ears through the holes cut into it and adjusted it slightly.

“There,” she stated, hands on her hips. “We’re going to be out all day, so it’s important to protect yourself from the sun.”

He couldn’t help grinning at her as he helped carry their supplies. She grabbed his hand and murmured, “I have the perfect place picked out for us,” before they both glowed with blue teleportation magic. Her hair lifted in the magical breeze, and then with a pop, they emerged in a cobblestoned courtyard cut shaded by towering trees, a river moving swiftly through the center of the settlement.

Tailfeather, in Dravania, she explained, before setting off confidently into the wilderness. He followed her through the misty forest, the sound of chocobo _kwehs_ whispering among the leaves, until they walked for some time along the Whilom River.

They picked a good set of rocks along the river and started unpacking their supplies. He breathed in the refreshing scent of moving water and watched as she easily rigged swivels and jigs onto their lines.

“Here,” she said, waving him over, “this is how you tie a clinch knot,” and her fingers moved elegantly through the motion of wrapping and tightening. “If you lose your hook, this is how you attach a new one.”

She looked up at him with her beautiful eyes, and G’raha could only nod his understanding and clear his throat nervously, suddenly aware of how close he was to her, leaning over to see the nearly invisible fishing line in her capable hands.

For a moment, he imagined the line as his heartstrings, tangled around her fingers, how he wished to wrap his own fingers through hers, clinch them together as tight as the knot she was teaching him.

He shook the thought from his head and took his fishing pole from her. Their lines hit the water with a clunk, and they settled themselves next to each other on the rocks.

The wind blew, the sun rose, they breathed in unison. They watched the silver thread of their lines intently, trying to distinguish the bobbing of the river current from a fish trying to take their bait.

“So how are you enjoying your new life as a Scion?”

G’raha chuckled. “I am certainly learning much and more. Hoary and Coultenet have taken it upon themselves to teach me all the ropes. And although I certainly need the training, there are days when I’m not convinced if I will survive as Alisaie’s sparring partner. I’m not always sure if she’s trying to improve my skills or instead exact her revenge for summoning you all to the First.”

The comment earned him a laugh from her, and he brightened at the sound. Gods, how many times had he heard her laugh? Not nearly enough, never enough.

As the more accomplished angler, she easily reeled in catfish and carp, but even if his line remained untouched, he reveled in feeling her relaxed posture change suddenly to tense excitement as a silvery shadow pulled on her line.

Quiet and conversation flowed as easily between them as the water in the river. The sun rose higher, and the shadow of the trees couldn’t keep the heat from beaming down on them as noon quickly approached. Sweat collected on the back of his neck, and he thanked her for the hat as he unwound his scarf and shrugged out of his red vest. Still too warm -- he removed the hat for a moment to pull his gray shirt off too.

He stood, stretched his arms above his head, and reeled in his line to cast at a slightly different place. He felt her eyes on him, and his tail twitched.

“Oh wicked white,” she cursed after some time. He turned at the First term and saw her pulling at her fishing pole, yanking harshly in different directions as the line stayed taut. He put his pole down and came back to her side.

“I got my line stuck,” she complained and continued to pull. “I could just cut it, but I’d like to try to save my jig---”

She relaxed the line and then gave a mighty heave, trying to pull it free. The line snapped, and she stumbled backwards. He reached out and caught her, but they both slipped on the rocks and tumbled down to the ground.

His heart stuttered. She lay half on top of him, her body in that thin tunic pressed against his shirtless chest, with his arms wrapped around her. He jolted, sitting them up, trying to separate their limbs, asking if she was harmed, but she just laughed against his shoulder.

“So much for my jig,” she chuckled as she tossed the fishing pole aside, the color high in her cheeks. He stared at her as she shook with mirth against him.

 _Reach out_ , his heart sang.

She lingered longer than necessary, but when her laughter stilled some, and she moved to stand, he looped his arms around her shoulders and held her to him, dropping his forehead onto her shoulder. The movement pushed the hat off his head, and it slid down his back to the ground.

“You’re so beautiful, my friend,” he murmured into the fabric of her tunic. “Would that you were always this happy and bright.”

She twisted in his arms, and he dared to raise his face to meet her gaze. She fixed him with a gentle smile.

“I feel bright around you, Raha,” she said softly. His breath hitched at her lips forming his name, and she smoothed her hand over his cheek easily.

She closed the short distance between them with a peck on his lips, chaste, shy, hopeful.

He responded with fervor, melding them together, burying his hands in her hair until the strands were wrapped around his fingers as tightly as a clinch knot. She sighed happily, and when they broke apart, she beamed.

"I think you've caught something better than a fish today, Raha," she giggled, and his chest rumbled with laughter as he kissed her again. And again. And again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got away from me. Have some fluff with shirtless G'raha in the stablemaid's hat.  
> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	5. Matter of Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 spoilers, referenced f!WoL

“So I hear you want to fight on the front lines.”

G’raha looked up from his book as Thancred pulled out a chair and sat next to him. He rubbed the bandages around his arm a little guiltily.

“Ah, yes, I appear to have miscalculated my abilities in that last skirmish--”

Thancred’s tone gave way to teasing: “My understanding is that you -- now how did Krile put it? ah, yes! -- ‘leapt gallantly but idiotically’ into the fray to save our dear Warrior of Light from a blow that would no doubt have been inconsequential to her but nearly took your arm off.”

G’raha’s ears flattened to his head. “In the moment, it seemed more reasonable than it does now in hindsight.”

“That appears to be a pattern with you, friend,” Thancred replied, matter-of-factly. “Particularly when the Warrior of Light is involved. She made me promise to watch after you until you -- and I quote -- ‘stop trying to get yourself killed.’”

The Miqo’te shifted uncomfortably, and Thancred continued, gentler this time, “You have already done more than enough to prove your love for her, you know.”

Surprised carmine eyes jerked to his face, and Thancred laughed loudly. “My dear fellow, we are not blind. We have all heard your story and have certainly seen the way you look at her. But you cannot pursue anything with her if you end up dead in a ditch, so let me help you learn how to _safely_ stand beside her.”

G’raha’s tail twitched at how easily the Scion saw through him, and his face felt hot. “You certainly don’t pull any punches, Thancred,” he grumbled with a smile. “As soon as my arm is a little more hale, I will take you up on your generous offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, how G'raha learns how to tank.
> 
> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	6. Crystal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is an Extra Credit/Makeup Day, so I am taking it to start exploring some aspects of a modern AU I have bouncing around in my head.  
> G'raha is having strange dreams.  
> CW: body horror, to be on the safe side

He walked the crystal halls alone.

Faint pinks and purples swirled along the faceted edges of the blue crystal, and it all glowed faintly. Gold indentations arched through the floor and the walls, forming formidable archways and intricate circular designs. He drew his fingers along the cold mineral, his fingers blue-edged with the glow. 

He called out, but no one came.

He lay on the ground in the center of a particularly elaborate design on the floor and studied the high vaulted ceiling. The crystals up there lost some of their clarity, piling on top of each other like a geode. He tilted his head and then started singing.

His voice resonated through the whole room and echoed off the walls. The clarity of the acoustics bathed over him, and he giddily took another breath and continued the song. Glowing brighter, the crystal tower hummed around him, adding a harmony to his melodious voice.

Pain gripped his right arm suddenly, and he tried to sit up abruptly. He could only go so far; the floor had become porous, and his arm had fallen through. He pulled, but the pain lanced up to his shoulder, and he grunted. He flexed his hand, still intact, merely as if it were underwater. 

The blue of the crystal bled into his arm, his fingers, his palm, sharp, hot. He saw white behind his eyes as the pain stabbed through; he panicked, screamed, and yanked out his arm, the pain be damned, and when he held it in front of him, he beheld an arm made entirely of crystal.

G’raha Tia woke with a start, his alarm blaring across the room. He breathed heavily, pushed back the covers, and slammed the alarm off. Running his hands over the normal skin of his arms, he sat on the edge of his bed and took several deep breaths, trying to shake the sensations of the dream from his body. 

On the table next to his alarm clock, the delicate model of the Crystal Tower of Norvrandt glowed faintly in the morning light that snuck around his curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	7. Nonagenarian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 spoilers  
> The Exarch ponders his age

The Exarch huffed as he tossed a book to the side. Not this one either, he groused, casting around his disastrously unorganized room for the tome he sought. Like the Umbilicus, his private chamber featured piles of parchment, books, and ink that took over the corners of the room and threatened to topple with the slightest provocation. His messiness was a bad habit from his childhood that he just could not seem to shake. No matter how much aggravation it caused him when he could not find books that he _needed._

“Baldesion would have my head for not keeping a clean workspace,” he chuckled to himself.

A flash of silver caught his eye. The Exarch looked up, startled, and stared into his own scarlet eyes in the small mirror that sat on the chest of drawers. He approached it, lifting a hand to his hair.

He used the mirror little, merely to make sure that his robes draped correctly. What need did he have to inspect the features of his face when he spent so much time hidden beneath his hood? So the shock of silvery-white hair along the left side of his face surprised him. And as he looked closer, he could tell the edges of the hair that draped over his right eye were fading as well, from rose red to a deceptive blond that would no doubt transform soon into white.

“Well,” he mused, “when did that happen?”

How long had it been, he pondered, since he crashed the Crystal Tower through the rift and onto the First? The years had melted together as he stumbled through negotiations and battles and somehow found himself at the helm of a city-state. The power of the Tower kept most signs of aging at bay -- his face still looked disconcertingly young, after all -- but apparently even the Crystal Tower could not keep the greedy hands of time from bleaching his hair after all these years.

He did calculations in his head and then blinked at his reflection in surprise. Over ninety years, going by the founding date of the Crystarium. _So long_. And yet not long enough, when he still had yet to completely solve the complicated problem of how to summon another soul across the rift.

A problem he was _so close_ to solving, if only he could find that damned book.

He stepped away from the mirror, pulled the hood over his head, and resumed his search. Better to hide the telltale signs of his age and frailty. He would need every last bit of strength to summon his Warrior to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	8. Clamor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 spoilers  
> The Exarch needs help from Chessamile.

Chessamile shook her head briskly to wake herself up. With the heavy curtains pulled across the entrances to keep out the neverending Light, the Spagyrics was almost warm and cozy. She yawned and stretched. She still had four more bells to complete her overnight shift, and she questioned if she could make it without a nap.

Usually, she stayed busy, even on overnight shifts. Patients needed tending with sleeping draughts and scheduled doses of antiseptic and pain powders. But miraculously, the day shift had discharged the last patient before Chessamile even arrived, and so she had the space all to herself. The first few hours, she took inventory and read her medical textbooks. But now, the empty patient beds were starting to look awfully tempting.

The sound of a child crying in the distance caught her attention. She tilted her head in confusion; what child would be outside at this bell? She rose and peeked around the edge of one of the curtains, squinting at the bright Light.

A hooded figure bolted across the Exedra, clutching a screaming child to his breast. He ran, robes flying back, straight for the Spagyrics.

Chessamile hauled the curtains back and ushered him inside. The man panted heavily, as if he had run the entire way from his Ocular in the tower, and held out the toddler in his arms towards her.

“She’s -- running a fever, please -- _help her_.”

She stood dumbstruck for but a moment. “O-Of course, my lord Exarch," she stammered, her training kicking in.

Chessamile led them to one of the beds. The gold detailing on his enigmatic hood shone richly in the lamplight. She had seen the Exarch, of course, as he spoke to the city from the Dossal Gate or walked back and forth from the Cabinet of Curiosity. She had never laid eyes on him up close, and she was struck by how she stood a full head and shoulders above him.

But the tiny Viis child that he placed on the bed quickly demanded her full attention. The girl’s face was red as she sobbed, and tears rolled down her cheeks from her big lavender eyes. She screamed when the Exarch tried to untangle himself from her, and so he ended up sitting on the bed with her in his lap, wrapping an unnatural crystalline arm around her. Chessamile felt the child’s forehead; she was burning up.

“Are there any symptoms other than the fever? Vomiting? Diarrhea? Cough?”

He had to talk a little louder than usual to be heard over the girl’s wailing. “She has fussed more than usual recently, but none of the symptoms that you listed, no.”

As they spoke, the girl grabbed at her head, and Chessamile smiled at the clue. She grabbed a specialized magnifying glass from her pocket, ruffled the child’s light hair, and reached to look in her ear.

The shriek pierced the Spagyrics and probably echoed all the way to the Pendants. Chessamile jerked back in surprise. The Exarch clutched at the girl as she flailed.

“Lyna! Lyna, _please_ ,” he pleaded, his deep voice breaking slightly. “My apologies, miss, I have never seen her clamor so.”

“Chessamile,” she said by way of introduction. She chided herself; she should have given her name first thing, but she had been flustered by the _Crystal Exarch_ himself walking into her infirmary with his shrieking ward. “And I’ll need your help, Exarch. Based on that reaction, I suspect she has an earache, but I need to look. Can you help keep her still for me?”

It was so strange to talk to someone without looking into their eyes, Chessamile thought. She watched the Exarch’s mouth form a thin line, and he leaned over to talk to Lyna.

“Lyna, can you be still?” he murmured, his words soft and gentle, just for the Viis. “Chessamile wants to help you.” He took a deep breath. “To help us.”

She heard the weariness in his voice, the weighty exhaustion that she heard in the voices of many parents. She could not see his eyes, true, but she imagined there were circles underneath them from staying up late trying to comfort his little girl.

She offered the magnifying glass out to Lyna, whose sobbing lessened a little bit with the soft words of the Exarch in her ears and the shining glass of the object before her. She smoothed her small hands around it, and Chessamile angled it so she could look through it and see Chessamile’s eye made big and round.

She nodded to the Exarch, who wrapped his arms firmly around Lyna, one flesh and blood, the other gleaming blue crystal. Chessamile took a deep breath and moved the magnifying glass to look in Lyna’s pretty leporine ears. The girl wailed and _wriggled_ , and the Exarch murmured to her and tightened his grip. Chessamile angled the glass so that she could finally spy what she had anticipated -- a bright red tympanic membrane in the right ear.

“All done!” she exclaimed. She stepped away as the Exarch planted kisses on Lyna’s tear-streaked cheeks, and she poured three different liquids into vials from her workstation in the back. She scratched out instructions onto a piece of parchment and returned to her patient.

The girl had wrapped her tiny arms around his neck, and it caused the hood to slip back a little further. Chessamile caught a strong straight nose, the suspected bags under still-shadowed eyes. She handed him the vials and the parchment.

“She does have an ear infection in her right ear. This one goes into the ear itself to numb the area and clean out the debris. You can apply it three times a day. This one should be taken by mouth twice a day to eliminate the infection itself. And this one--” She tapped the glass of the clear vial. “This one is a sleeping draught for her so you both can get some rest.”

He accepted the vials from her with a relieved sigh and leaned down to nuzzle his face into Lyna’s hair. She still cried, but it was somewhat quieter than before.

“Thank you, Chessamile,” he replied, standing and shifting Lyna’s weight in his arms. “What do I owe you?”

Chessamile blinked. She briefly imagined the horror of accepting gil from the Crystal Exarch.

“O-oh, nothing, my lord,” she answered quickly. “Knowing I could help your young ward is payment enough.”

She felt him tense, but he nodded. “You are very kind.”

She suddenly felt shy. This man’s strength and generosity had inspired her to pursue a path of helping others. She opened her mouth to say more, to somehow articulate the high regard she and the other residents of the Crystarium held for him, but he smiled, patted Lyna’s back, and headed out of the Spagyrics.

Two days later, Chessamile arrived at the infirmary to find a wrapped package with her name on it. She undid the paper to reveal a case of bottles with a label written in elegant script: Highland Spring Water. There was no card or signature, but Chessamile did not need it; who else could have acquired such a rare ingredient from Il Mheg?

There was, however, a folded piece of paper -- a child’s scribbling with colored pencils, circles and ovals that, after she looked at it for some time, looked awfully similar to her magnifying glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	9. Lush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 Job Quest spoilers  
> A happy evening at the Wandering Stairs

You happily pay for each of them to have rooms in the Pendants so that they each have a safe place to return to for the night and so that Taynor can have a quiet place to study and sleep. After ensuring that Taynor will be fine for the evening, you quickly steal Cerigg away to the Wandering Stairs to join Lue-Reeq, Granson, and Giott. You slap down a handful of gil and delightfully crow for Glynard to pour drinks.

Granson protests for a moment, but you hit him with a smile. What better way to spend your gil than on food and drink with the most daring adventuring friends anyone could ask for?

With a little prompting from Glynard -- although you don’t need much with the alcohol buzzing through you -- you all start telling your tales. You are not known for being outspoken, but here, beneath the comforting eaves of the Crystarium, among the frivolity of the Wandering Stairs, you let the words flow freely.

You describe the locations you have traveled with your companions, places that your audience of Crystarium citizens may never see in their lifetimes. The harsh desert of Amh Araeng, covering your skin with itching grains of sand; the high cliffs of Kholusia, where the distant sea breeze stings your nose; the overgrown foliage of Rak’tika, the shadowed boughs creating safety from the Light; and the vibrant flowers of Il Mheg, so saturated with color that they almost hurt to look at.

Your companions add in their own details -- the thrill of the hunt, the successes and failures on your journeys to hunt down the Cardinal Virtues. You slip in some of the stories gifted to you by the Echo: the fierce determination and strength of the Warriors of Light. You only have a small audience, but it is something, a few stories to help balance out the reputations of these mighty warriors who loved the First so dearly.

As you drink more, your stories fall apart and turn more to laughs and jibes. Chuckles spill from you as you order drink after drink. Even Granson is smiling.

Your head swimming, you realize that you are in danger of being labeled a lush. You only giggle at the thought. Who would deny you this? -- this bubbling warmth, the laughter of friends. It is the happiest you have been in some time. No primordial Light, no Wardens to slay, no Ascians leaning over your shoulder for the moment. An evening where, for once, you can unapologetically enjoy yourself.

Giott easily drinks you all under the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	10. Avail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 spoilers  
> Runar and Y'shtola sit beneath the first night sky.

“It is beautiful, is it not?”

Runar looked over as the Mystel woman joined him on the log bench. He did not know how long he had spent craning his neck to spy the stars through the branches of the ancient Rak’tika boughs, breathing deep the sweet quiet of the new night sky.

His neck would ache on the morrow, and he would laugh with the joy of it.

He gestured up towards the sky. "It is a majesty unlike any I have ever known."

"I cannot truly see it, but Urianger described it to me, and so I can imagine."

With only the cooking fires illuminating the center of Slitherbough, her pale hair fairly glowed in the darkness.

"The Night's Blessed are in your debt, Master Matoya. We will celebrate you and the Warrior of Darkness forever for bringing us this greatest gift of the boundless dark."

He watched her shift uncomfortably next to him.

"Neither the Warrior of Darkness nor I seek to be worshipped," she replied. "The Blessed have survived many long years without the reverence of gods. Do not change course now, Runar."

It always shocked him when she spoke so authoritatively on their religion, a faith that, at the end of the day, she did not fully believe in. Even after two years spent among them, learning their customs, fighting for them, speaking as their representative, even dying for them -- she was still an outsider.

"I--Of course, Master Matoya."

When she first came to their people, carrying more books than food, he kept her at arm's length, cautious of her otherness. He quickly reversed course. The walls he sought to build around his heart availed him not one bit. She blasted them down with fire and ice, with a chuckle and a wink.

He braced himself for the words he knew were coming.

"I'm leaving in the morning," she said quietly. 

A growl rumbled low in his throat, but he nodded.

"Are you feeling well enough to travel? You--" He couldn't say the words. When the Warrior broke the news that she had fallen to her certain demise, he had burned with despair. 

He murmured, "You . . . joined the sunless sea for a moment, earlier."

She put her hand on his arm.

"I am as hale as you, Runar. And I am greatly comforted knowing that the Night's Blessed will be safe under your care. I am needed elsewhere now. We need to bring the night sky to the other lands of Norvrandt."

How could he say no to that? He placed his other hand over hers. So small, so mighty.

"Promise me that you'll come back."

She squeezed his arm. "I will come back."

The words tumbled out. "And promise that you will take time to rest. And that you will eat three meals a day."

She chuckled. "So many demands. I am hesitant to make an oath I may not be able to keep, but I assure you I will not behave quite as recklessly as I did earlier."

That was enough for him, for now. They sat together quietly, looking up at the night sky. He would hold her in his heart until she returned, looking forward to the day he would stand with her again beneath the safety of the boundless dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	11. Ultracrepidarian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depressed Alphinaud after ARR.

Alphinaud tucked the bottle of wine under his arm and slipped quickly back into the room gifted to him by Lord Haurchefant at Camp Dragonhead. As he placed the bottle on his desk and poured it into a glass, he shook his head.

Wine thief, he thought. Another term to add to the litany of rebukes running nonstop through his head since he had felt the cold steel of the Crystal Brave's sword pressed against his neck.

Fool. Idiot. Dupe. Egotistic. Pompous. Vain. Ultracrepidarian.

He snorted as he tossed back the wine. Even as he berated himself, he still tried to show off with the fanciest word he could remember from his Sharlayan education. The wine bloomed bitter on his tongue, and he coughed against the flavor. He took a shuddering breath and poured another drink.

Alphinaud knew his reputation at the Studium: an arrogant prick whose personality was saved only by his grandfather’s name and the modicum of charisma that he wielded like a club. Honeyed words to carve out some sort of space for himself, no matter how awkward, no matter how rough-hewn.

Fool. Idiot. Dupe.

Egotistic. Pompous. Vain.

He drank and drank, craving the numbness that the alcohol promised. He winced as he remembered the words he spoke to Minfilia that night: _We are on the cusp of a new era of unity and prosperity. Territorial disputes are all that divide us now. But I have faith that we will find an amicable solution in time. And failing that, I’ll have my trusty Warrior of Light box the ears of all concerned._

Ultracrepidarian indeed.

The Eorzean Alliance was more tenuous than ever, the realm in shambles. How dare he think he could fix all the problems with a snap of his fingers. How dare he think of the Warrior -- his friend, one of his few friends -- as nothing more than a weapon to use to his own ends. How dare he think so boldly. How _dare_ he. _How_ dare he. How dare _he._

A pit like the one just outside Camp Dragonhead, the one the soldiers called Witchdrop, opened up inside him. He feared no amount of wine could fill it. He wanted Alisaie to come and smack him across the face. He wanted his grandfather to take him in his arms and hold him close.

The wine bottle empty beside him, he buried his face in his arms and sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	12. Tooth and Nail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 Spoilers  
> Thancred and the Oracle of Light

He grabbed her hand -- so small and delicate in his own -- and fled with her.

After spending years in a prison cell, the girl needed little teaching on how to hide herself; she easily curled her shoulders and slunk down when he bade her hide among the foliage. Thancred took her along the coastline, across the sea, and through the lavender fields of Lakeland. Away, away, away.

But for all that her timidity lent itself easily to the rogue skills he taught her along the way, there was nothing to do but hide her striking features beneath a hood. Without the barrier, she could conceal her golden hair and unnatural eyes as easily as she could stop breathing.

He purchased a room in the abandoned mining town of Garik, now occupied by Mord middlemen in Amh Araeng. Eulmoran soldiers would not think to question the skittering merchants. He felt reasonably safe here, for now. 

The fear would not truly unclench in his heart until they reached the very south of Amh Araeng. No one ventured there, where the crystallized remains of the Flood arched over the very edge of this world.

The girl slept on the small bed, exhausted from the travel, as he sat across from her in the cramped room. Her hair spilled out over the pillow, gleaming in the lamplight.

He never thought he would see that hair again. 

That color haunted him like a nightmare, this child a distorted reflection of the woman he had known and loved. Her appearance pained him, and he clutched that pain like a falling man reaches for a rope. It stopped his spiral but left burns on his hands.

She murmured softly in her sleep. He clenched his fists. He would throw himself upon his own gunblade before relinquishing this sweet torture. He would not see this girl live her days in a prison cell. He would fight tooth and nail to keep her free, in the air, under the Light, by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep intending to go back to writing about G'raha, but apparently my brain has wanted to explore the emotions of the Scions. Almost certainly more catboy coming soon - have some hurting Thancred in the meantime.
> 
> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	13. Exercise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is a free-write day, so I'm exploring my modern college AU again.  
> The Warrior of Light first catches G'raha's eye at the gym

G'raha exhaled sharply as he lifted the dumbbells out to his sides. He counted sets in his head, filling his chest with air and pushing his aching shoulders to keep going.

The doors to the university gym opened across the way, and his eyes slid to the movement. He was reasonably familiar with the students who came here -- mostly athletes, wrestlers, and dancer girls. He did not recognize the face of the girl who walked in.

She crossed the gym gracefully, placed her keys and student ID in one of the cubbies against the wall, and then returned to claim a treadmill. His eyes followed her almost involuntarily.

She was _striking_.

She tugged on her ponytail of dark brown hair, fit earbuds into her ears, fiddled with her phone, and adjusted the settings of the treadmill. The straps of a black sports bra criss-crossed her shoulders, hidden otherwise by a black tank top. She started walking and then jogging, her ponytail swishing.

The Elezen on the treadmill next to her finished his jog and left the machine.

G’raha placed the dumbbells back on the rack and hurried over to the now unoccupied machine. He leapt onto it, letting his tail help him balance, and she glanced over at him at the sudden movement next to her. He grinned widely.

She smiled back and then turned her gaze back straight ahead, listening to the music flooding through the earbuds. He pressed the buttons on the treadmill, sending the track spinning quickly. No warm up, he started jogging immediately; a wicked idea had entered his head, if only he could get her to notice him again.

He matched her speed and incline, his heart thumping with the same beat of their feet slamming on the track, until they were perfectly in sync. After ten minutes, she increased her incline and her speed a little bit.

He copied her instantly. _Notice_ , he prayed.

She turned her head slightly in his direction, presumably following the movement of his hands in her peripheral vision as he pressed the buttons on the console. He gave her a grin and a wink. She eyed him, her eyes travelling from his scarlet hair, down his red tank top and black work-out shorts. She smirked and increased her speed a little more.

He matched it and then increased his incline.

Her treadmill whirred as the incline adjusted to match his.

They breathed quickly, their footfalls in tandem as they ran side-by-side. Blood pumped loudly in his ears. Sweat collected along his neck and temples, but he thrilled with the competition.

A harsh buzzing startled him, and he jumped his feet to the stationary sides of the treadmill to keep from tripping, his tail fluffing at the sound. Her phone was ringing, and she fumbled with the controls to stop the treadmill and jump off to answer the call.

He watched her through the fringe of his hair, the treadmill track spinning fruitlessly between his feet, whining with the speed. Her tank top had a chibi chocobo on it with a speech bubble saying, “Kweh?” She breathed rapidly, her cheeks flushed with the exertion. Sweat dampened her brow and made her neck and collarbones glisten.

“H-hello? Oh--hi! Yeah, I’m -- at the gym,” she panted. “Sorry, it’s -- so loud in here -- oh, yeah -- I’ll -- head over now.”

She looked up at him as he stared at her and smiled sadly. He nodded in understanding. She hurried over to the cubby and retrieved her keys and ID and headed for the exit, still talking on the phone, glancing back at him over her shoulder as she left.

G’raha punched the buttons on the treadmill to reflect a much more reasonable speed and chuckled to himself as he started a cool-down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	14. Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 Spoilers  
> Some Exarch angst

In all his years of careful planning, he cultivated the pretty half-truths he would tell her. He practiced them with the Scions, and only Y'shtola's clouded gaze gave him true pause. His charm did not work on her.

He placated his nerves with cherished memories -- banter and drinks and blushing friendship among the crystal landscape of Mor Dhona. His charm had worked on the Warrior of Light, once upon a time. It would work again.

That was fine to think when she didn't stand in front of him. He had failed to account for the pleasure and pain her very presence brought him. He would have thought that a century of waiting, of planning for the greater good, of having his body slowly consumed by crystal would have rid him of his hopeless attraction to her.

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth when she stood before him. Thank the gods he did not have to meet her gaze while he hid behind the hood.

And instead of pulling her aside and pushing back his disguise, of baring his face and heart to her -- instead he let those practiced gilded lines fall from his lips.

He could bite off his own tongue with the guilt of it all.

A few hours earlier, she lifted her hand, a beam of light burst forth, and then the sky parted to reveal the glorious, unbounded night.

Penitent, he knelt before her.

He knelt as a worshiper does before the altar of his god, and he confessed to her. His lips parted and out spilled the truth: that he asks her to slay the Lightwardens; that doing so will prevent the Rejoining and save both the First and the Source; that he will atone for his crimes with his life.

But like the true sinner that he is, he did not say it in a way that she truly understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	15. Ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modern Grad School AU  
> You know, no big deal, just writing a scene that will be in the middle of the story. What is context.
> 
> 5.3 spoilers for the name of the AU WoL and for G'raha as part of the Scions.  
> Graha/f!WoL flirting
> 
> WoL is studying mass communications and G'raha is studying Allagan history.

SCIONS Group Chat

_Lyse_

What is everyone doing tonight?!?! Let’s go get drinks!!!

_Y’shtola_

Having dinner with my sister, sorry

_Thancred_

Would love to but practice

_Alisaie_

Saaaame, Alphi and I are fencing tonight

I’m gonna trounce him

_Alphinaud_

Don't say that like it's inevitable!

_Alisaie_

It's inevitable

_Alphinaud_

I'll get you one of these days and then what are you going to do?

Also Uri is buried in research and won’t be leaving his room come hell or high water

He has a deadline next week

_Azema_

Unfortunately I also have to study

Going to the library tonight so I can focus and not have people bother me

_Lyse_

Fiiiiine you all are totes missing out

G’raha? You in?

G’raha stared at his phone and tapped his thumbnail against the screen for a moment. He sucked in a deep breath and then started typing.

_G’raha_

I really should study too

Can I join you at the library?

_Azema_

Of course!

* * *

He found her already set up at a table surrounded by books and notes, her laptop, and a thermos of coffee. He pulled out the chair across from her and started unpacking his materials.

She smiled at him and curled a lock of hair behind her ear. The movement brought his eyes instantly to her neck, and he shivered at the memory of dancing with her at the Eulmore club last weekend, of how he had nearly dropped his lips to that expanse of skin.

He shook his head and opened his books.

They studied fairly quietly for some time. Her phone vibrated with text messages periodically.

"Amaura says she liked hanging out with all of us and that we should do it again soon," she said, reading the text message to him.

He grinned. "We absolutely should. Your sister is really fun."

Azema beamed. "She's the best."

G'raha tilted his head, remembering how happy she was laughing with her sister, all the cares melting away from her. "Maybe I can meet your brother someday too."

She snorted. "Maybe, if he ever comes home again. Ardbert's off in Norvrandt, working for a nonprofit."

"Oh wow," he replied and blinked down at the dense Allagan historical analysis in front of him. How . . . accomplished, he thought, for Ardbert to have already established himself on the continent across the sea. To already be working and contributing, helping others.

What was _he_ doing, burying himself in the stories of the past?

"Oh no," she breathed. G’raha started at her tone. Her gaze was fixed behind him, towards the doorway at the far end of the hall. She started closing her books and shoving them back into her bag.

"What's happening?"

"We have to go." She clicked some buttons on her laptop, and her leg bounced anxiously as she waited for it to shut down.

"Why?"

He turned around to see what she was glancing at, and all he saw was a Doman student entering the hall with foppish black hair.

He turned back to Azema, who was now reaching across the table and closing his books for him. He helped her, sliding books into his backpack, but he gave her a confused look. She grinned self-consciously at him and jerked her chin towards the newcomer.

" _That_ is Asahi Naeuri, and I had some classes with him in undergrad" -- the next words came out very quickly accompanied by a sheepish smile -- "and I may have punched him in the face once, and he has absolutely never forgiven me?"

G'raha laughed, too loudly for the library, and he felt the attention of several students turn towards them.

"Oh shite, he sees us."

She grabbed his hand, and he barely had time to sling his backpack over his shoulder before they _fled_.

Chuckles spilled out of him, and shivers ran down his spine as she yanked him down the hall towards the elevator. He glanced over his shoulder and was surprised to see Asahi actually heading towards them with a murderous expression. G'raha pulled her to the side, through the door to the stairwell, and started heading down the stairs quickly.

“Where are we going?” she laughed behind him.

“You get all your mass comm research from the new sections upstairs,” he gasped, swinging around the landing. The walls changed from calming blue paint to aging white cinder blocks. “ _My_ research comes from down here, in the stacks.”

He pushed them through a door, and they were immediately assaulted by the smell of old books, the scent of age and dust hanging deliciously in the air.

“This is _my_ domain.”

Distantly, they heard a door open and close in the stairwell above. Azema giggled and whispered, “Hurry, hurry!”

G’raha led her swiftly through the tight bookshelves, this labyrinth of ancient knowledge. They chuckled, breathless, at the thrill and the silliness of it, and he pulled her into an alcove, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her close, making them as small as possible in the corner of the stacks.

She shuddered against his body with suppressed laughter. His ears flicked as his listened intently and _waited_ for Asahi following them.

“What did he do, Azema?” he whispered. “Why did you punch him in the face?”

She pursed her lips. “You don’t understand how much of a jerk he is. His attitude is awful, his voice is awful, and he kept tormenting this one girl in class, so finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and just punched him.”

“All right, fair enough,” he said, shrugging. When his shoulder moved against her, it sent lightning through his body. He became suddenly very aware of how close they were, huddled together.

 _I should move away_ , he distantly thought, but he was thoroughly distracted by the flowery scent of her shampoo.

“Do you want me to go tell him off?” he asked after a moment.

She shook her head and held him a little closer. “He’s not worth it.”

They stood, listening to the sound of their breathing. He prayed she attributed his racing heart to their dash down the stairs. After some time, the stacks remained quiet. They were not being pursued.

She stepped forward to peek around the corner of the bookshelf, and he ached when she moved away. Her face was flushed.

“I think we’re safe," she declared.

G’raha’s tail thrashed behind him. He was not safe. He had never been in more danger of falling completely and hopelessly in love with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	16. Lucubration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 Spoilers  
> G'raha considers his new circumstances after he awakens from the Crystal Tower

G’raha Tia awoke to an unfamiliar world.

Their explanation laid bare the tragedies of the Eighth Umbral Calamity in uncomfortably clinical terms. He learned, quickly, that the men and women who lived in the aftermath of the Calamity were a stern, pragmatic people, navigating their way through a harsh and unforgiving world.

The bright brash boy he had been could not survive here.

You don’t want to draw attention to yourself, they told him, and so they dressed him in drab garb and gave him a cloak with a hood to hide his hair and eyes. Scarlet like blood, they called his features. Too unusual.

But they were not a people without ambition or hope. 

His eyes pricked with tears when they brought him to their library, crammed full of books and scrolls on aetherology, history, and legends. Some were burned, others waterlogged, still more with bindings falling apart, but the knowledge they contained was treasured beyond measure. The collected hopes and dreams of lifetimes, gathered in a small dark room. 

The last time he dedicated his life to intensive research and study, he emerged from the demanding Sharlyan curriculum with his Archon tattoos. This new lucubration with these stalwart people would yield something much more precious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up differently than how I intended because I am so busy today. I may revisit this for the Sunday Free Write when I have more time to work it into an active scene.  
> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	17. Fade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 spoilers  
> Established romantic G'raha/f!WoL

They sit together in bed, happy and sated, with her back to his chest. G’raha hums into her ear as he runs his strong hands along her arms.

“You’re purring,” she teases.

She feels his tail bristle slightly against her bare hip, but he only chuckles and nuzzles into her neck.

“How could I do aught when I have the Warrior of Light in my bed?” he murmurs. She can feel him smiling into her skin, and the warmth of him against her is a steady comfort. She reaches up and strokes a silky ear.

His hands still on their journey up and down her arms, and his thumb lingers along a scar on her forearm. “Where did this one come from?”

She tilts her head and thinks for a moment. So many battles. So many slices and scrapes. Some faded away, and some became scars upon her body, stories for him to uncover.

“That one,” she mused, “came from fighting a coeurl. It was early on in my adventuring career; I didn’t fully know what I was doing yet.”

He leans over her and pulls her arm forward until he can press a soft kiss against the scar. “I would know the story behind each and every one,” he breathes reverently.

She turned her head and kisses him, open-mouthed and sensual, humming with happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	18. Panglossian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3.0 and 4.0 spoilers  
> The Warrior of Light visits Haurchefant

You trudge through the snow and follow the long, rocky path north from Camp Dragonhead alone. Evening descends on Coerthas, the overcast sky melting into darkness as your boots crunch through the freshly fallen snow.

Keeping a sharp eye out for monsters and drakes, you wind through the ruined walls of the Vigil and then turn to the west. The wreckage of civilization falls away, those remnants of the destruction wrought by dragons and men, and you breathe deep the crisp scent of pines growing courageously along the cliffside.

The wind whips against your face. Distantly, the gleaming city of Ishgard points heavensward, a myriad of lights glowing across the chasm, the hopes and dreams of a thousand living souls represented as pinpricks of yellow light.

On this side of the chasm, at the edge of the precipice, you kneel at the gravesite.

Your breath rattles in your chest at the sight of the shield emblazoned proudly with the unicorn sigil of House Fortemps, the metal edges curling cruelly around the hole in it. You swallow hard and then speak,

“Hello, Haurchefant.”

You wait for his laugh, his bright voice greeting you in return, always overjoyed to see you, so panglossian in his attitude, even until the very end.

_A smile better suits a hero._

You clench your fists. “What if I can’t do that?” you hiss, voice anguished. The smile you plastered on your face recently did little to calm the anxiety and pain left in the wake of Zenos yae Galvus’s attack on Rhalgr’s Reach. A brittle and fragile twitch of the lips that could not keep the stench of blood and smoke from haunting you and your companions.

The snow keeps falling as tears slide down your face, wishing for the comfort of Haurchefant’s presence. For a moment, you feel a hand rustle the locks of your hair, gentle and encouraging, and you cry harder when you realize it is only the harsh Coerthan wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	19. Where the Heart Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 Spoilers  
> Tataru gets caught up on events  
> f!WoL/G'raha implied

“Well,” Tataru mused, now that the Warrior had talked herself hoarse providing the full and detailed account of her adventures in the First.

It had shocked the Lalafell to no end when the Scions, newly awake and somehow blessedly safe, had shooed away the Warrior immediately and requested _another cup of tea_. And then, when the Warrior returned with an exhausted-looking scarlet Miqo’te, everyone cheered, even Krile’s eyes brimmed with tears, and Tataru scrambled to put all the pieces together.

So once things calmed down a bit, she demanded the Warrior give her a full debriefing at one of the round tables at the Rising Stones.

And as the story spilled out, it seemed the Warrior also desperately needed to talk some things out. Tataru was surprised to hear the depths of emotion in the Warrior’s voice, normally so stoic and stalwart. Her voice warbled, caught, keened, and snarled as she described the trials and tribulations she and her fellow Scions had experienced on the First.

Tataru’s ears pricked at the softness in her voice whenever she spoke about the Crystal Exarch, G’raha Tia, the mysterious man who had sacrificed himself time and again to save their worlds, to save _her_.

Tataru took a long sip from her teacup.

“Well,” she mused. “It seems like his heart is in the right place, even if he took extreme measures to accomplish his goals. So the question just remains -- where does your heart lie?”

The Warrior looked at her with wild surprised eyes, and Tataru reached out and patted the Warrior’s hand as the woman groaned and ran a hand across her face in exasperation.

“Tataru, I don’t -- _I'm still so mad at him_ , but I'm also happy that he's all right and that he gets to be here with m--us. I--I don't know what to do with all these feelings. I'm good at slaying monsters, not -- whatever all this is. What do I _do_?"

Tataru could not help the giggle that tumbled from her lips. “Talk to him. He’s only been here a short time, but I can already tell how much he adores you. But like you said, there are a lot of feelings, and you can both only work through them if you talk to each other.” Tataru grinned, the sharp gleam of a fierce negotiator flashing across her face. “And don’t worry, I will _make sure_ you two have some alone time tomorrow.”

The Warrior sputtered on her tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	20. Scarf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Free Day  
> 5.3 spoilers  
> Wanted to revisit lucubration, but I have been short on time, so here's something short and sweet.

The sunset slants through the eaves of Revenant’s Toll and sets G’raha’s hair aflame. The flare catches her peripheral vision, and she is so distracted by the ruby shine that she trips in her monk movements and almost falls face-first into the striking dummy.

He interrupts his casting and steadies her, entangling his hands with hers. They laugh and pant together on the training grounds, muscles thrumming with the aftermath of their attacks.

“Are you all right?” he asks, breathless.

She nods and chuckles, and her chest squeezes to see him so happy and bright. He gives her a smile that reaches his eyes and crinkles them into carmine crescents, a grin that warms her from her toes to her ears.

Gods, he's so beautiful.

She fists her fingers in his scarf and pulls him forward, crashing their mouths together in a searing kiss.

She will have to thank Tataru, she thinks dizzyingly, for adding a scarf to his new outfit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	21. Foibles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 Spoilers  
> Emet-Selch interrogates the Exarch  
> Mentioned f!WoL  
> CW: mentions of violence

For the aged commander of a city-state, the Crystal Exarch is disgustingly pretty, Emet-Selch decides as he snaps his finger and drops the semi-conscious leader onto the gilded floor of the Capitol in Amaurot.

That cannot be abided.

The Miqo'te groans and lifts his head to look blearily around. Emet-Selch crouches before him and catches the man's chin in his hand.

"Where--?" the Exarch breathes.

"Ah-ah-ah. 'Twould not be advisable to move at this time, dear Exarch. In case you do not recall, there is a bullet lodged in your back."

Scarlet eyes stare back at him, blinking slowly, as the Exarch's dazed mind catches up with the words spoken. They are the ruby red of the royalty of another world, granting him power unbefitting a sundered soul, and Emet-Selch sneers as he releases the Miqo'te's chin and stands back up to tower over him.

The Exarch coughs and sucks in a sharp breath of pain. "Where is the Warrior of Darkness? What have you done with her?"

"What have _I_ done?” Emet-Selch places a gloved hand on his breast. “Why, nothing at all. She is still in the state that _you_ left her in, and so we are all simply biding our time, waiting for the Light to tear her apart and transform her into the most powerful sin eater this sorry Shard has ever seen.”

With a teeth-clenching cry, the Exarch pushes himself up into a seated position, and Emet-Selch shrugs in exasperation. He had told him to be still, had he not? These _mortals_ and their idiotic _stubbornness._ It is enough to make a man pull his hair out.

The Exarch pants in pain and shakes his head over and over, the crystal that consumes his body glinting in the light. Such a lovely shade of blue. Emet-Selch places a finger along his face and considers how best to mottle the man’s skin with blue bruises to match that winking crystal.

The Exarch lifts his head with those blood red eyes. “This is -- not how -- it was -- supposed to be,” he gasps.

“Ah yes, you expected to be dead by now, did you not? But alas, with all your years of careful planning, you did not take my interference into consideration. The Rejoining will happen one way or another, and I must admit I am fascinated to learn how one such as yourself harnessed the power of time and space itself.”

Coughing wracks the Exarch again. “You will never have the power of the Crystal Tower,” he spits out.

Emet-Selch bends over at the waist, invading the Exarch’s space. “Indeed. Remember that you are a fragile thing, without the strength of the Tower and your darling friends to aid you. We are far away from the Crystarium now; you exist here on my whim. You are in _my_ city now.”

He brandishes his arms with a dramatic flourish, showing off the geometric patterns and structures of the Capitol.

“But do not worry overmuch, Exarch. She will come here in due time. I daresay she means to rescue your pretty hide from my dastardly clutches, although I doubt she has the strength to keep the Light at bay for that long. You should have seen her, vomiting Light like the too-shallow vessel that she is. _Such_ a disappointment.”

“Quite the change in attitude, Emet-Selch.” His voice has recovered its calm, and that is infuriating. “You took such an interest in her once.”

The Ascian waves his gloved hand in the air as though flicking away a speck of dust. “A mere foible, now corrected.” He slides his gaze back to the Exarch and grins wickedly. “I believe I have now discovered someone _much_ more worthy of my attention.”

He leans over and fists his hand in that carmine hair. The Exarch winces.

“Let us use this time wisely, Exarch, while we await our esteemed guest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	22. Argy-Bargy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 Spoilers  
> The WoL is the Postmoogle for the Scions and the friends they left behind in the First

Although your adventures have flung you to great heights -- charging into battle, sitting at negotiating tables, slaying primals, and tangling with Ascians -- at the end of the day, you started your journey as a humble adventurer like any other. Those early journeys taught you that finding and acquiring objects of interest can make joy crest over someone’s face like the dawn, a light and warmth that is then shared with you.

It is what makes you an excellent Postmoogle.

You gather the Scions around one of the large tables in the Rising Stones and heave your sack of mail onto the table, feeling like the Saint of Nymeia at Starlight. You reach your hand into the sack and start handing out the letters.

Ryne wrote a letter to each of the Scions. The ones to Thancred and Urianger are a little thicker than the others.

One for Thancred from Magnus, crumpled a little along the edges.

One for Y’shtola from Runar, addressed to _Master Matoya_ in careful script. She unfolds the letter as well as a sheaf of paper decorated with pressed flowers.

A collection for G’raha from Lyna, Moren, and Katliss.

A few to Alisaie from the caretakers at the Inn at Journey’s Head that she opens with eagerness.

A reasonable number for Alphinaud from Chai-Nuzz and a truly _unreasonable_ number from Dulia-Chai. You pass the three from Master Chai to him first and then reach back into the sack with both hands to present the stack from Lady Chai, and his mouth falls open at the sight.

“Has she -- has she been writing one every day since I left?”

You glance at the height of the stack. “That may in fact be the case. Oh! Also this!” You hand him a tin of Eulmoran cookies, and he munches one as he starts the daunting task of reading all the letters.

You reach back in and pull out a box that you push towards Urianger. “This is from the pixies. They of course could not be asked to write any sort of letter, but they insisted that I bring you these.”

He opens the box and pulls out fuchsia flower petals, verdant leaves, sheep wool, and shiny wing membranes. He runs his fingers over the soft wool. “These are truly lovely. Prithee, relay mine thanks to Titania and her people.”

You nod. Your branch will be very pleased to hear that her people’s gifts were well received.

With the gifts delivered, you bask in the warmth of a job well done and listen to the sound of papers rustling as you read your own letter from Ryne.

G’raha clicks his tongue against his teeth, and you turn to him. He has spread the many pages of updates and reports out in front of him and is reading with a furrowed brow.

“Is everything all right at the Crystarium?” you ask.

He looks up surprised. “Oh, yes, everything is proceeding without too much concern; there are simply many details in the letters. I did leave provisions for how the operations of the Crystarium should continue in my absence, but there have still been issues, of course. Some have been true conflicts that needed delicate negotiations; others were nothing more than an argy-bargy--”

The word no sooner leaves his mouth than the whole table snorts and laughs. G’raha’s ears perk straight up in shock as his friends descend into giggles. Alisaie wipes a tear from her eye.

You hold your side with laughter. “My apologies, G’raha -- what word was that?”

“Argy-bargy?” he says, ears twitching. “A noisy tiff? Is that -- not a familiar term? It is quite common on the First; it is believed to have originated with the Dwarves.”

“It sounds like something a goblin would say!” you exclaim.

Alphinaud's shoulders shake with mirth, and then a ponderous expression overtakes his features. “Now there’s a thought. I wonder if one could trace linguistic roots across the Shards. Our dear friend may be the only one alive who could conduct such research.”

You shake your head vigorously, and Alisaie groans. “Honestly, brother, you would use her world-hopping abilities for something as boring as that?”

“Not in actuality, but it is an interesting question nonetheless," he replies, shrugging. "Perhaps we could interview G’raha instead.”

You reach over and swipe a cookie. “That is a _much_ more practical idea!”

Butter and sugar explode on your tongue, and you hum with satisfaction. You grab another cookie, and Alphinaud pulls the box closer to keep your prying hands away. This moment rushes over you like the flavors -- a moment of sweetness and playful banter, surrounded by the messages and love of friends near and far -- a moment to be lived in fully, and you take a deep breath, holding it all in your chest, close to your heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	23. Shuffle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0/5.3 Spoilers  
> WoL/G'raha established relationship  
> CW: depiction of anxiety/panic attack

After the First, some nights, she wakes up gasping. It is not so much the shadowy remnants of nightmares that rouse her but rather a deep and unshakable ache in her bones; a catch in her heartbeat; a flutter of gold and alabaster wings in her throat.

Her fingers tingle and twitch on the bedsheets. G’raha sleeps undisturbed beside her, and she tries to match the easy in and out of his breathing. She sucks air in through her nose and out through her mouth, but in the moment her lungs are full to bursting, before she can ease herself down from that precipice, the wings in her throat surge, sweeping and suffocating as Storge’s feathers, and she sits up abruptly, coughing and wheezing, heaving in short harsh gasps.

Her intestines twist and crank, and a croak creaks out of her.

She is dimly aware of movement behind her as she struggles to breathe. Tears leak out, she trembles, and suddenly warm arms wrap around her.

“Come here,” he murmurs in her ear, shuffling his body and the blankets so he can pull her flush against him. “Come here, dearest. Breathe.”

“I want to crawl out of my skin,” she gasps, gripping his forearm hard.

He drops a kiss to her shoulder. Some more shuffling, the brush of his soft tail against her thigh, and he is embracing her tightly from behind, his warmth suffusing through her back.

“You are safe. Breathe with me,” he orders gently.

And with his mouth right next to her ear, he inhales. She clutches his arms and breathes in, shuddering at the anticipation of the peak, but the surge does not happen this time; they breathe out again, a whoosh as her body empties and curves backwards into his.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

The feathers still flutter, tears still streak down her cheeks, and her heart still thumps uncomfortably in her chest, but with his help, she shuffles back under the covers, and he sits with her, fingers gently playing with her hair, sending pleasant tingles through her scalp. He hums softly, his rich voice soothing and stalwart, the stroke of his fingers matching the melody he murmurs, and with his steady comfort, her breathing evens, and she falls back asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	24. Beam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4.0 Spoilers  
> Gosetsu reflects.

Gosetsu should be dead.

With the weight of the roof of the palace on his shoulders; the bullets in his back; and then the sudden icy plunge into the river -- he should not still have breath in his body.

But for some reason the kami saw fit to spare him, to preserve him as he tossed, haggard, through the waves. They kept the water from filling his lungs, kept his heart beating, provided him with a makeshift raft and sand upon which to land it.

They provided those gifts to the witch of Doma as well.

He remembered the panicked look in her eyes as he stood over her, sword drawn, face open and horrified -- the stark sound of her shouting -- _I don’t remember, I don’t remember, what did I do?! what did I do?!_

The kami saw fit to stay his hand, the fear in her voice ringing true as steel, a moment of mercy from an old swordsman.

Gosetsu and Yotsuyu should be dead, but here they sat. He watched her now, as the two of them shared this spit of land, as she stared up at the moon and stars. The moonbeams filtered down and shone on her midnight hair. She curled into herself, no trace of the hateful snake who had confronted them in Doma Castle.

He believed her.

May the kami watch over them both as they made their way through sunbeams and moonbeams back to his companions.


	25. Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crystal Tower timeline, post World of Darkness, f!WoL  
> There are individual wishes, and then there are the collected wishes of the ancients.

_You have to sleep_ , he told himself.

He had wandered the Crystal Tower since the moment they emerged from the World of Darkness -- the mad dash back through the portal, the loss of Unei and Doga heavy in his limbs, their gift to him leaving him restless. Before, his cursed right eye gave him merciless headaches, but now, with his blood bolstered and both eyes declaring his lineage, his head was clear, but his hands shook. He nodded and smiled at the other researchers and scholars cataloguing the mysteries of the tower, but he could not bring himself to speak with them.

He ran up and down the myriad blue and gold staircases. He made a map in his mind of the hallways and rooms. He buzzed with the energy of the tower until he felt exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. He needed to sleep, but how could he possibly rest, when the answers to his whole life lay before him now?

The answer was coming into focus -- the wish of the ancients -- a beacon of hope --

“G’raha?”

He spun around. The Warrior of the Light.

“Are you all right?” She tilted her head at him, eyebrows pulled down in worry. Oh, what he wouldn’t do to smooth that wrinkle away.

He dropped his hands -- had he been clutching his head? His tail lashed behind him.

“I -- yes, ‘tis -- a new experience, to have more Allagan blood in my veins.”

He forced a smile. She came beside him, laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, her fingers on his bare skin. He stilled at the touch, the blood pounding in his ears.

Oh Twelve forfend, when had he --?

She spoke, gently, telling him what Rammbroes and Cid were working on, that Nero seemed well enough, thank goodness, and he heard the words but as if his ears were packed with cotton, and he trembled again. He had chased girls before, back in Sharlayan, had grinned and bragged and flirted, but this felt like he had just missed a step going down stairs, and instead of catching himself on the railing, he was plummeting down the whole damn flight.

His mind raced, imagined for a wild moment covering her mouth with his, clutching her calloused hands to his pounding heart --

He shook his head violently.

If only he had realized it earlier, perhaps there would have been a small sliver of hope -- she had always looked kindly on him after all, graced him with smiles and small touches here and there.

But for all his intelligence, he was a fool, and that wish was no longer meant to be.

“G’raha?” she asked. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

The smile he plastered on belied the turmoil roiling inside him. "Of course, my friend. I just need some rest. Sleep will do me good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry for the gratuitous use of dashes.
> 
> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	26. When Pigs Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 Spoilers  
> Alisaie doesn't want to spend the day in the infirmary

She dreams of dark cliffs cutting through rusty desert sand; of golden hair and tender eyes; of white wings and an apology grating from a too-long throat. She dreams --

Something cold boops her face, and Alisaie wakes with a start. The gently twinkling light of Alphinaud’s moonstone carbuncle looks down at her, and she splutters as she pushes it away from her and sits up.

Morning light cuts through the windows of the infirmary. Y’shtola and Urianger are reading on their cots, and Thancred is eating breakfast. She glares at her twin and shoos his summon back towards him. The carbuncle jumps off her bed and scampers back over to her brother’s bed, where Alphinaud pages through his grimoire. He smirks at her as she rubs her sleeve across her nose, trying to scrub away the cold.

“What was that for?” she complains.

“You were the only one left asleep,” he answers, running a hand over the carbuncle’s back, and the summon particularly vibrates, its black eyes half-closing in delight.

“And you seemed a little distressed,” he says, quietly, so that only she can hear.

“I’m right as rain,” she grumbles. She lifts her arms over her head and stretches. She swallows a groan; her body still feels like she got hit with a trolley. She is sure Krile will insist that they all stay in bed _another_ day, and Alisaie frowns at the prospect. Despite the ache in her muscles, she wants to run and practice with her rapier, cast spells and fell foes.

She is suddenly distressed that her chosen discipline of red magic requires so much physicality, that she cannot both rest in bed and practice spells like her brother.

The carbuncle shines in the corner of her vision, and its glowing body reminds her painfully of Angelo. She shivers and sighs, desiring the heat of the desert on her skin, remembering the push and pull of aether within her, flowing through the porxie and into the patients at the Inn at Journey’s Head. How precious, to remember the slight improvements in the patients after the treatments. Alisaie had begged Beq Lugg to continue them after she left, and she sends up a quick prayer that they are continuing to improve, that maybe one day Halric can do more than stare blankly ahead.

But gods, the treatments were exhausting to execute. Angelo shimmered, snuffled, and eased her weariness like a balm, but she knows she does not have the strength to summon him now. 

Maybe once she feels better, she and Angelo can pay a visit to Ga Bu and see if the treatments will improve his earth-aspected soul --

Alisaie flings herself back down onto her pillow and pulls the covers up over her.

Alphinaud startles next to her. “Alisaie? You’re going back to sleep? Are you truly feeling unwell?”

“I want to get better _quickly_ so I can actually _leave this infirmary_ ” she grates, forcing her eyes closed. “And so if sleeping and resting is the only way to accomplish that goal, then rest and sleep I shall.”

She takes deep even breaths and eventually drifts to sleep. This time, she dreams of porxies, plump, with floppy ears, and cute curly tails, leaving pink sparkles in their wake as she flies with them across Eorzea, healing those below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	27. Karuta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is literally the most self-indulgent thing I have written in my entire life, and that includes self-insert Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter fanfic that I wrote in middle school. This Chihayafuru AU is more self-indulgent than that.
> 
> The "Shuffle" prompt made me think of card games, and the only card game I care about anymore is karuta, a real Japanese card game that is the focus of the anime/manga Chihayafuru. In karuta, there are two players and a reader with 50 cards divided between the two players. The reader reads poems from the Ogura Hyakunin Isshu, a collection of 100 Japanese poems, and players grab the card with the corresponding second verse on it. It is a game of speed and focus; the faster you can identify which poem is being read (usually after 1 to 6 unique syllables), the faster you can grab the corresponding card. If you grab a card from your opponent's field, you can send them one of your cards, thus reducing the number of cards in your field. Whichever player reduces the number of cards on their field to zero first wins. The "grabbing" is often fast and violent with players slapping the cards so hard they fly across the room. The high school team and individual tournaments are played at the Omi Jingu shrine and Learning Center every summer.

Omi Jingu -- the haven of karuta players everywhere, where the school nationals and Meijin and Queen matches were held every year -- the shrine architecture blazed as red as G'raha's hair in the early morning sunlight.

He prayed and clapped twice, bowing reverently.

The Learning Center was packed with people - high school students from near and far, coaches, spectators, organizers. His team, NOAH, had participated yesterday in the team tournament, and with their heavy emphasis on defensive karuta, had held their ground until the semifinals, where they faced the Scions, an offensive powerhouse. He had won by only 5 cards against their captain, Y'shtola.

He'd told Cid about his match when they got back to the inn.

"She closed her eyes in between readings! As if she didn't need to look at the cards at all, even if I moved them -- like she could still see all of them in her head, and she only needed to hear the sounds."

On the other hand, Cid had played the Scion ace and had lost by a decimating 17 cards.

Some few karuta players gained nicknames during their careers, usually Queens and Meijins and notable challengers. It was uncommon for a high school student to earn such a moniker, but her meteoric rise to Class A and fierce playstyle quickly earned the Scion ace the title of Warrior. She had led the Scions on to defeat the Ascians and win the whole team tournament.

Gods, G’raha wanted to play her. He envied Cid no small amount for the opportunity to sit across the tatami from such a formidable opponent.

The team tournament had finished late last night, and G'raha stretched and yawned as he approached the table where the individual tournament matches were assigned. He found his other teammates in the crowd: Cid, Biggs, Wedge, and Rammbroes. He bounced nervously on his toes as he waited for the organizers to place the name cards on the table, thereby declaring the matches for the first round.

Despite the people milling around, he caught sight of her. She held herself differently than the other participants, an easy calm in her posture. He felt a little like a moth drawn to a flame as he somehow found his feet moving towards her.

"Hi," he greeted brightly.

She put on a polite smile and answered, "Hi."

"I'm G'raha Tia, on the NOAH team you played yesterday. Congratulations on the win; you all deserved it."

The smile became more genuine. "Thank you. NOAH also did well, to come in third place."

"Well, there's only so much we could do against your team’s abilities.”

“You said your name is G'raha, right? Y'shtola told me about her game with you. She said you were formidable.”

His game had made their debriefing? His fingers tingled, and he couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Well, hopefully you and I will meet in a match today, and you can see for yourself!”

She leaned forward towards him, hands on her hips. “I hope so too.”

“G’raha!” Wedge called, waving his hands in the air. “The matches are up!”

G'raha waved to the Warrior, a little shyly, and maneuvered back over to the table and his teammates, searching the cards for his name and his opponent.

He stood in silence for a moment, looking at his name paired with hers.

He felt her pass behind him, heading out of the lobby and into the actual match room. “Looks like you’ll get your wish,” she chuckled.

They found their spot and kneeled on the tatami across from each other, the box of karuta cards resting between them. A moment to mix the cards, count out 25 for each of them, and then time to place their cards in front of them.

G'raha took a deep breath and roved his eyes over the placements during the fifteen minute memorization time.

 _Just play the way you always do_ , he reminded himself, as anxiety rattled inside him. Defensive karuta with a focus on memorization and study.

And so he made a study of the cards, but also of her, which was perhaps not the smartest thing he'd ever done, considering how attractive he found her.

A pleasant, open face; silky hair pulled back; bright eyes; lips muttering syllables to herself as she focused on the cards. She must have felt him staring -- those eyes slid from the cards up to him, and he looked down abruptly. Her breathy laugh made him shiver.

"Time!"

"Let's have a good game," they said, bowing to each other and then to the reader. The room echoed with the voices of the other players wishing the same thing.

The reader took a deep breath, and the opening poem rang out.

" _In Naniwa Bay, now the flowers are blooming. After lying dormant all winter, now the spring has come, and the flowers are blooming_."

The echoes vibrated through the room, and G'raha and the Warrior both leaned forward. His ears twitched, eagerly awaiting the next syllable.

" _The spring has---_ ”

The words had barely fallen from the reader’s lips when the Warrior started moving; G’raha tilted with her movements, rushing to block her access to the card on his side of the playing field. She slipped her hand underneath, knocking the card to the side.

“ _\---passed and the summer come again; for the white robes are spread to dry on the Mount of Kaguyama._ ”

G’raha sat back on his heels as she dashed to retrieve the card. A sloppy defense on his part. He had moved because she had started moving, shocked by her speed, not because he’d heard the syllables clearly himself.

He shook his head to himself as she sat back down. He had played fast players before; that was nothing to be nervous about. He knelt in preparation for the next reading.

She captured the next three cards.

With a pout, he reached his arm out across the field a few times, practicing swings. _Be calm_ , he reminded himself. Lower his shoulders -- back strong and straight as a tower.

With her hand to her chin, she considered which card to send, and finally, she slid one over to him. He blinked in surprise. A one-syllable card? Players only rarely sent one-syllable cards to their opponent -- and if they did, it was so they could steal it back from them.

He moved it to his lower right side, determined to defend it, and as he did so, the poem flashed through his mind: _Waves are gathered on the shore of Sumi Bay, and in the gathered night, when in dreams I go to you, I hide from people’s eyes._

There were an unusual number of love poems on the field today.

The reader’s voice swept through the room: “ _Though we---_ ”

G’raha sprang forward and swept the card from her upper left field.

“ _\---are parted, if on Mount Inaba’s peak, I should hear the sound of the pine trees growing there, I’ll come back again to you_.”

He paused for a moment as he debated which card to send to her. The Ogura Hyakunin Isshu was a collection of poems full of love and politics and beautiful depictions of scenery. But if he was playing a game against an attractive, powerful girl with a field of love poems at his disposal, he might as well be bold about it.

“I’m sending this card,” he said, pushing it towards her.

_I have met my love. When I compare this present with feelings of the past, my passion is now as if I have never loved before._

She captured the one-syllable _Waves_ she had sent him previously, and then sent him: _Since I could not hide my love, people would always ask if I was pining for someone._

She caught his eye and smiled.

The reader drew some cards from the box that focused on scenery and spurned love, on politics and friendship, of course, but G’raha found himself fascinated with the love poems that they sent back and forth to each other. Sweat dripped along his temple as they played in the hot room, tensing and relaxing in time with the reader’s rhythm, reaching and defending and attacking each other’s fields.

_Like a mariner sailing over Yura’s straight with his rudder gone: I do not know where this love will take me._

_It is true I love, but the rumor of my love had gone far and wide, when people should not have known that I had begun to love._

His defenses crumbled before her attacks. She stole card after card from him, just as she was stealing his heart, but finally he managed to snatch one from her field. His loss was written in stone, but that did not matter -- he needed to send her one final card.

_How can I tell her how fierce my love for her is? Will she understand that the love I feel for her burns like Ibuki mugwort?_

They bowed to each other again as their game ended.

“Thank you for the game,” they said in unison.

G’raha wiped sweat from his face and sighed. He had lost by 14 cards. His time in the individual tournament was over, destroyed by this initial loss. He looked across at his opponent and found that he was not too upset about it.

Their eyes met across the tatami. She winked at him, and he could not help but laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you got this far without knowing what the **** was going on, *thank you* for reading, and I invite you to watch/read Chihayafuru to learn more about karuta. It is an amazing anime/manga that focuses on teamwork, friendship, sports, and poetry. 
> 
> If you got this far and do know what Chihayafuru and karuta is, oh my goodness, please reach out; let's nerd out together over weird poetry card slapping.
> 
> Poem translations primary came from the University of Virginia's modernized version of Clay MacCauley's translations of the Ogura Hyakunin Isshu, found here: http://jti.lib.virginia.edu/japanese/hyakunin/frames/hyakuframes.html. I took some liberties and supplemented the updated MacCauley translations with some alternate phrasing found on the Chihayafuru wiki and in the anime.
> 
> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	28. Irenic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric has been working too hard.

Lucia strode into Ser Aymeric’s office in the Congregation of Our Knights Most Heavenly, prepared to deliver her report, and then immediately stopped in her tracks.

Ser Aymeric’s large table in his office was completely covered with open tomes, sheafs of paper, inkwells, quills, and mugs of tea. And in the middle of it all, Lucia’s commanding officer was fast asleep, his head and arms on his desk.

Taking care with her footfalls, Lucia strode to his side. Crafting the legal and religious arguments necessary to restructure the government and religion of Ishgard required enormous amounts of research and time on the part of the Lord Commander, and so Lucia was taken aback but not completely surprised to find him fast asleep. He breathed deeply, a quill still in his hand.

Such tremendous, irenic goals -- to undo the clergy, establish a governmental entity for the commoners to have a voice, and unite Ishgard and the dragons in a new era of cooperation.

He had been working himself much too hard, lately.

She reached out and ran her fingers through his dark fringe, smiling at the softness.

“Sleep well, my lord,” she murmured, gently, plucking the quill from his hand and setting it down on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	29. Paternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.3 Spoilers  
> f!WoL/G'raha, implied f!WoL/Haurchefant, referenced character death  
> The Warrior of Light, Alphinaud, and G'raha visit House Fortemps

Count Edmont de Fortemps gripped his cane tightly as the doors to his reception room flung open. When the Warrior of Light and her Scion companions entered his home, he sighed in relief.

He had not truly believed them safe and hale until he saw them with his own eyes.

The worry that had clutched at his heart since he heard word of the Scions dropping unconscious one by one finally started to peel away as he beheld Alphinaud lifting his chin proudly and the Warrior of Light shining in polished armor. With a paternal instinct honed from years of sending his children to the battlefield, Count Edmont took quick note of the changes in them -- the way Alphinaud stood taller but sported a few more lines around his eyes and mouth; the way the Warrior kept her shoulders squared, even here in this safe haven, how she looked a little paler than before.

He would make sure she ate a good, hot meal to revive her color.

"Welcome, my old friends," he greeted, and then tilted his head slightly. "And a new one, it seems."

A Miqo'te entered as well, and although he tried to stay a step behind the Warrior, Count Edmont highly doubted that the young man could ever truly hide with his vermillion hair.

“Welcome to House Fortemps,” he announced.

The newcomer stepped around the Warrior of Light and hinged at the waist into a bow. “G’raha Tia, a newly inducted Scion, at your service, my lord.”

Count Edmont started when the man looked up at him, revealing two blood red eyes, as sanguine as his hair. A handsome but disconcerting color, so bright in the harsh Ishgardian cold.

“It is an honor and a privilege to make your acquaintance, sir,” G’raha continued. “If I may, ‘tis difficult to express how important your work _Heavensward_ has been to me. I have read it more times than I can count, and it has lit the flames of hope in me time and again, even when the situation appeared very grim, and for that, I would like to express my utmost gratitude.”

A shiver ran down the count’s spine, thinking of the memoir he kept hidden in his desk drawer, unknown except to his family, but he held himself together. “Indeed. It is a pleasure to have you all here. How fare you?”

Alphinaud stepped forward. “We finally have the health and opportunity to travel and reestablish relationships with our friends across the continent, and we are pleased to visit Ishgard again. We have a meeting with Ser Aymeric later in the day, but until then we hope to spend the afternoon here at House Fortemps as well as reacquaint ourselves with the city.”

News passed easily between them -- the current stalemate status of the Garlean frontlines; the shifting political landscape in Ishgard; his sons’ posts and accomplishments. Alphinaud primarily spoke, but the Warrior chimed in some. After his initial bluster of words, G’raha Tia kept mostly silent, lingering near -- almost too near, Count Edmont noted -- to the Warrior of Light.

But her body weight shifted towards the new Scion, not away, as if she could not bear to be too far away from him.

Count Edmont smiled softly.

After some pleasantries and discussions, the Warrior quietly asked his leave. "This is G'raha's first time in Ishgard, my lord," she said, "and I would like to show him the city."

"By all means." He gestured towards the door, and the Warrior and the Scion bowed and exited. Right before the doors swung shut, when they no doubt thought they were hidden from view, Count Edmont caught their hands reaching for each other's, their fingers intertwining.

He eased his eyes shut for a moment. Ah, how times changed. He remembered fondly reading Haurchefant's letters, his son's prose singing the praises of this new Eorzean adventurer called the Warrior of Light; how he effused about her strength, her eagerness, and her honesty the few times he was able to have dinner at the manor. And as Count Edmont himself came to know the Warrior, as she lived under his roof and aided his country, he hoped that his son's adoration might be returned. After awhile, that seemed to be the case, and Count Edmont imagined that, in time, he would welcome her as a true daughter of his house.

But, painfully -- the most pain he had ever known, would ever know, would carry with him like a spear in his side every day of his life -- that dream would not come to pass.

Instead, time moved on, and it appeared the woman he thought of as a daughter had found a new suitor. He nodded to himself and wished her joy -- and wished that boy the Fury's blessing. He would certainly need it.

He turned and gestured to one of the seats in the room. "Well now, Master Alphinaud. While your friends go sightseeing, why don't you join me for a cup of tea? Perhaps you could explain to me how your new friend has managed to read my _unfinished and unpublished_ memoir?"

Alphinaud chuckled and followed him. "We should brew a whole pot of tea for that explanation, my lord. It is quite the tale."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


	30. Splinter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 Spoilers  
> The Exarch apologizes.

When she returns from the Source, the Exarch knocks on the door to her Pendants chamber, and thus presents himself for his execution.

She opens the door and raises her chin when she sees him.

"May I beg a moment of your time, Warrior?" he asks.

She steps aside so he can enter the clean comforting space. Bright flowers perch on the balcony ledge, and the wide windows draw his gaze up and out, open to let in the gentle breeze. Her armor and adventuring gear rest in and around the armoire to the right, and a used plate and glass sit on the table to the left.

“I hope I am not interrupting your meal,” he says.

She shakes her head and moves to sit on one of the seats at the table. He stays in the empty space in the middle of the room, hesitating.

When she left for the Source, he paced the tower restlessly, ran his hands through his now visible hair, and tried to hide from the comments of every man, woman, and child in the Crystarium calling him _young_ and _handsome_. What was it to be young and handsome anymore? -- the brash child who had believed himself to embody those words had not breathed for over a hundred years.

When she left for the Source, he ached at the loss of her, and he dreaded her return at the same time. In all his decades of planning, he had never once imagined this moment, a time when he would have to stand before her and answer for his actions, lies, and crimes. That future was simply not meant to be.

But somehow, by her grace, he stands before her now.

He takes a deep breath.

“I still owe you a proper apology for my behavior. After our -- travails -- on Mt. Gulg and then in Amaurot, there was little time for speaking, what with our recoveries and then the Crystarium festivities, and so I have come today to acknowledge my actions.”

His fist clenches at his side, and he braces himself. When he imagined this moment during her absence, he could only picture the ferocity on her face when she fought Hades, the devastating determination of the Warrior of Darkness brought to bear. He trembles in anticipation of that fury turned on him, fully prepared to splinter in the wake of her wrath, crumbling along the lines carved into his broken body where the crystal has claimed him.

Since he did not die in the rift, he makes his stand here.

The storm does not come; she sits quietly at the table, gaze downcast, pondering.

The Exarch had prepared himself for fire and fury. The silence deafens him, and his breathing turns shallow as he realizes she has not spoken a single word since their interaction began.

_By the Twelve, please say something. Curse me, yell at me, slam the door in my face, please, just -- something._

“I have been doing some thinking too,” she finally says, “while I was on the Source.”

Her eyes meet his, and he stills, awaiting her judgment.

“You have behaved more similarly to Emet-Selch than you realize, both of you leading me along with incomplete information.”

The Exarch flinches at the comparison.

“I value honesty, G’raha, and every word you spoke to me from the moment I arrived on the First was honeyed in half-truths.”

He twitches and starts to splinter, the weight of his name engraving cracks in his facade.

"And yet, for as angry as I was -- as I am -- I cannot truly hate you or even blame you for making the choices that you made. The First is a brutal world, and you are not a brutal person. You had to make extraordinary choices in order to survive.”

He cannot breathe.

“I have the Scions, and I have friends beyond their number -- Aymeric, Hien, Estinien -- who watch over me, who help me bear this burden. If we are to move forward together, G’raha, I must be able to count you among their number. I must know that you are able to look upon me as more than just the Warrior of Darkness, that I am more than just a means to an end for you. I am a person, not a pawn.”

His voice is hoarse when he declares, “You were the means to an end, yes, but never just that. You _were_ the end, the goal, _always._ ”

She nods, a little sadly. “That’s another thing.” She stands and strides to him, fixing him in place with her strength and beauty.

“Can I live up to her? This paragon Warrior of Light who resides in your mind?”

Her words cut through him, and G’raha clenches his teeth. “I didn’t -- I came to apologize and see if there is some way I can atone --”

“I am not a goddess, G’raha.”

She reaches up a hand and wipes away a tear that was winding down his cheek. He trembles under her touch.

He had loved her, as a boy, in that fierce fumbling way that a young man loves when he hardly knows the object of his affections -- because, truly, compared to her relationships with the Scions, how little he knows about her, how precious few moments they spent together during that ethereal summer researching the Crystal Tower. He took that bright burning passion into the tower with him, and it scalded him irrevocably. When he stumbled into the aftermath of the Eighth Umbral Calamity, she was worshipped as a goddess, the truth of her personality and deeds shrouded in legend, splintered truths buried beneath embellishment and religiosity. How easily his memories had mixed with those stories, the years apart muddying his perception of her humanity.

“I don’t want to worship you,” G’raha whispers. “I want to know you.”

She grants him a smile. “Then let’s walk together, and talk, and learn about each other again. Maybe we can even race to the gates of the city.”

She winks, and he nearly weeps. _Such a long time ago_ , he had bid her race him to collect aethersand, and a chuckle spills out of him, bubbly with relief.

“I would like that very much, my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before this, I struggled to write anything for several years, and now -- miraculously -- I have written something every day for the past month. This was a truly wonderful experience, and I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reading.
> 
> Want to be a part of our weird community of writers and readers? Join Emet-Selch's Book Club today! https://discord.gg/PZTEBHW


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